


La Vita Nuova - A New Life

by Schmiezi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9078364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schmiezi/pseuds/Schmiezi
Summary: Two years after terrible events that estranged him from Sherlock, John still has not come to terms with what happened.  He needs to return to London to deal with it, one way or another.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoSherlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoSherlocked/gifts).



> This fic is part of the annual Secret Santa Fic Exchange of the Sherlock forum. The prompt was a Johnlock fic that contains angst with a happy ending and hurt/comfort. A poem or song was supposed to play an important part. It was a wonderful prompt I enjoyed a lot!
> 
> I am sorry about the unborn baby Watson. There are no graphic descriptions whatsoever, just mentioning of terrible mistakes.

John woke up with a terrible headache. It was already bright outside, sunshine flooding the room. He was disorientated for a moment. The headache was one he was familiar with from a long time ago. He was hungover.

Damn, after staying sober against all odds for nearly two years now! John groaned. Why had he let it slip? There had been a reason, or something that seemed to be one, for opening that bottle on the sideboard. What had it been?

He rubbed his eyes. They felt dry and heavy. With a sigh he sat up and his glance fell onto the newspaper that was lying open next to his bed. And instantly he remembered what had caused last night's drinking.

"Elgin axe murderer caught in London" a smallish headline at the beginning of the local part reads. Beneath it, in black and white, a photograph of Sherlock.

John closed his eyes. Yes, that had been the reason.

He silent cursed himself while getting up. Two years. Almost two years he had resisted the siren's call of whiskey. And all it took to lose it was taking a look at Sherlock's picture in the newspaper.

In the kitchen, he prepared himself coffee and some dry bread. Hungover breakfast. Last night, with his brain swimming in alcohol, he had been able to push away all thoughts of that rotten photograph, and of the man on it, to fall asleep. Now that he was (mainly) sober again, it was not easy to stop thinking about the past.

Sherlock had looked odd in that picture, by the way. Older. Like he had aged during those two years. Gracefully. Well, maybe not older, like in wrinkles and grey hair, but more mature. Not unhappy, but not beaming with joy either. There was no hint of the old arrogance, the smugness caused by the knowledge that he was better than all of the police. The picture showed a man John would surely like.

He refused to have another shot of whiskey right away but just barely so. Better drown the rest of the alcohol in the sink right away, he told himself, and remained sitting on the table.

His eyes were only burning because he had had too much whiskey and way too little sleep, John told himself. And he would surely stand up soon to mow the lawn like he had planned. He would definitely not get stuck in dark thoughts about the past and where he would be now if that god forsaken night hadn't happened. He would not spiral down into another wave of feeling guilty. He was done with that.

Four hours later, he realized that he was still sitting at the table, unable to rise, and that the bottle of whiskey was unmistakeably more empty than when he woke up.

Okay, no mowing the lawn this Saturday, then. But he would go down to the village to get himself food for the rest of the weekend, and definitely no more alcohol.

*** 

On Monday morning, he called in sick at the clinic for the rest of the week.

On Wednesday, he kicked the newspaper away. It landed with another page open, which was good. With half-hearted interest, John looked at that page. It was the one where you can leave birthday greetings and congratulate your son on his driving licence. Right in the middle of it was a wedding announcement. The advert was decorated with hearts and doves and roses. In the middle of it, there was a poem, short but supposedly touching.

In that book which is  
My memory …  
On the first page  
That is the chapter when  
I first met you  
Appear the words  
Here begins a new life

~ Dante Alighieri

John could not help but snort bitterly. He had felt like this once, a long time ago. Memories of lazy Sundays and easy banter came up instantly, the smell of tea and some obscure chemicals, the expectation of the next case that just has not come to their flat yet.

He closed his eyes briefly. A new life. That was how he had felt at 221b, before Sherlock had secretly decided to bring Moriarty and all of his network to the fall. Before there needed to be Mary to keep John going, before Sherlock killed Magnussen, before Sherlock had dragged his pregnant wife along to …

Yes, a new life. That was what John had now. An empty, meaningless life, built upon loss and pain.

On Thursday, the newspaper was still lying in the corner of his bedroom. There were three empty bottles of whiskey in the kitchen. The lawn was still not mown.

It was only a little hiatus from getting over it all, John told himself. He had allowed himself to get drunk for a few nights, and would forbid himself to do so soon. Maybe tomorrow.

On Friday, he was a little more sober than on Thursday. In that lucid moment, he thought how he had not get drunk even once after it had happened. Not when he was spending the first night alone in their empty house, not after the funeral, and not when he sold the crib on Ebay. Not when he had left London.

Never.

It was simply not right that taking one look at the face of Sherlock Holmes made him lose it all. No, he would not allow that man to drag him into drinking like he did. No, that would not continue. He would stop drinking right now and get on with his life or what was left of it like he did before.

On Sunday John woke up and realized that he had no memory of Saturday whatsoever, and that he was not feeling hungover despite the whole bottle he must have drowned the day before.

He went into the bathroom and took a close look at himself in the mirror. Deep dark circles underneath the swollen eyes, chin not shaved, skin grey. John closed his eyes for a moment. This could not go on like that. Using the disgust he felt over his mirror image as motivator, John went into the kitchen and emptied the two remaining bottles of whiskey into the sink. There, done.

But nothing was done, right? He had to admit it. He finally had to admit that he was not over the past the way he had made himself believe lately. He sighed. Deeply. There was only one way to stop himself from spiralling deeper and deeper into self-loathing and despair and alcoholism: He had to return to London.

He had to return, and face Sherlock, and …

And what? John had no idea. Forgiving Sherlock seemed impossible. Break with him for good? That was already done, and had not prevented John from falling last week. Talk about it all to get over it? John had to laugh at that. Sounds like a naïve idea from American movies. But one thing was clear, he could not go on like that.

So the soldier inside him took over once more. He bought a train ticket back to London, booked a holiday home close but not too close to Baker Street, and packed his luggage. He would be away for a few weeks, so he asked the neighbours to take a look at the garden and stuff, and then he left.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock knew how John's steps sound on the stairs. Of course he did. He could not only tell John's steps from that of all other people in the world, he also used to be able to tell what mood John was in, what he was carrying with him and how urgently he needed to frequent the bathroom, just from listening to his steps.

He knew John's steps, he just hadn't expected to hear them now.

Or at all, ever again.

And so he only realized what he had heard a second ago when the door to the flat was opened. Not only hearing John's steps but seeing the man himself was overwhelming.

His brain tried to deduce him, all of him, instantly. Sherlock was unable to direct his attention, information washing over him at high speed, none of them really sticking in his mind. Something about his hair cut, his shoes, the shade of the skin underneath his eyes, the wrinkles on his hands and his forehead, the absence of his wedding ring, the little spot of dirt on his jacket, but all the details refused to form a big picture, a sound analysis.

Instead, only one thing kept coming up again and again. John did not come here for a joyful reunion.

Unable to tell why John had come here instead, Sherlock took four uncertain steps towards him and stopped right in the middle of the room. So did John. They stood a few feet apart, too far away for comfort, too close for indifference. But John was here, after all that time, he was really here. For whatever reason. Not to give his final goodbye, he was standing too close for that, too many unidentified emotions rolling over his face.

He was here, and Sherlock knew he needed to say something profound, something touching but not cheesy, something to make him stay. He had imagined that moment in his mind for so many times. It needed to be neutral enough not to scare John away, but slightly heart-warming and open.

“John,” he said, his voice cracking just a little bit. Then he no longer knew what else to say.

All right, that did not go too well.

Sherlock's mind remained painfully empty. No words appeared there. John looked at him with mild curiosity, then he averted his eyes for a moment.

“I did not come here for reconciliation”, John stated flatly, his voice even, his eyes now fixed at Sherlock's again.

Of course not, that much was easy to deduce. Sherlock nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. He had imagined John's return in head many, many times.

Somehow, it has never included them standing awkwardly in front of each other for a painfully long time.

Deductions were still running through his head, too fast to be read. Sherlock tried to ignore them the same way he was ignoring his pounding heart. John was here. Maybe for the wrong reason but he was here. But why? After trying to concentrate on at least one of his deductions for a while, Sherlock gave up.

“Why are you here?” he asked instead, and then hastily went on, “I mean, it is .. good. Really good. To have you here. I mean. It is. You are here and. You don't have to... But you are ...”

He silently cursed himself. Now that was not exactly what he had wanted to say. Damn it. John's face remained unreadable. He nodded, but at what Sherlock could not even guess.

“I need to get over what happened,” John finally said. There was something soft in his voice, something weak. It made John sound pitiful and lost. Sherlock fought his impulse to embrace him.

“Yes,” he answered instead. John still fixed him with his eyes, and Sherlock did his best not to squirm.

“Yes,” John repeated, bitter. “You got over it pretty well, right?”

Sherlock swallowed down a remark. There was nothing good he could say now. Because yes, he had got over it. But it had been hard work and very painful, and he had needed a lot of people's help to do so. Help John refused by fleeing to … Sherlock checked his shoes for a second … Northern Scotland, by breaking up with everybody he knew and held dear once. And he only got over what had happened that night, he only made peace with his part in it, with his responsibility. He never got over the fact that John had left him behind like that.

But now was not the right time to point all of that out. Now was the time to make sure John would stay, so Sherlock would get a chance to heal him as well.

“You need to get over it,” he carefully said instead, “and you came here for it. I suggest to ...” he chose his words very, very carefully now. It felt wrong, to be that careful with John, but at the moment, needs must. “...to establish regular contact so we can ...” become friends again? Help each other seal the wounds? Find out that John no longer wants Sherlock in his life after all? “... work on it.”

His heart was still pounding in his throat. Strange that John did not hear it. Or maybe he heard it but did not care.

John looked at him for a long time. Then he nodded once more. “Yes,” he said. Nothing more. And with that, he turned around and left the flat without looking back.

Only when the echoes of John's steps down the stairs were long gone did Sherlock realize what deduction had tried to surface again and again. John was angry. Underneath all his uncertainty and weakness there was anger.

Was he up to facing that much of John's anger? Well, he needed to be if he wanted to find out if his John was still living somewhere inside this broken, angry man.

His mobile vibrated. A text message. John!

“See you on Friday?,” it read. On Friday. The day after tomorrow. Sherlock allowed himself to smile, just a tiny little bit. Friday. They would meet again, and he would get his change.

“On Friday,” he wrote as an answer, and the added, “I am glad you are in London again.”

There was no answer but that was all right. They would meet on Friday.


	3. Chapter 3

The room John had rented was nice and cosy, made for tourists who needed comfortable rest after an overdose of London. There were white needleworks on the side tables and meaningless pictures on the wall.

John sighed when he returned to that comfortable hell. He had taken a detour on his way back. This first encounter with Sherlock had left him raw and vulnerable for no apparent reason, and he had felt the need to walk through the streets of London for a while. A long while. He must have walked for hours without knowing where exactly he had been.

He was not sure it would work. They would meet on Friday, all right. And then what? Would they awkwardly stand in front of each other again?

Sherlock had been eager to please, that much had been clear. He had tried hard to find the right words. He had not always managed to do so but his eagerness had been clear.

There had been a time where John would have been pleased by that. Sherlock was … had been? … very selective about whom he wanted to impress and John had always felt a bit special when he had been in the centre of Sherlock's efforts. Now it left him only bitter.

He had not been able to look at Sherlock without loathing him for all the pain he had caused. John had tried and tried but it had not been possible to forget. So what should happen on Friday? He would meet Sherlock again, and he would try and be open for everything, and he would go home feeling drowned in bitterness again. So why had he even offered to meet? Because being at 221b had touched something, John had to admit. The feeling of being home had washed over him with a force he had not deemed possible. He had lost more that night, not just his future. He had also lost his home.

But it was gone for good, right? He could come to the flat as often as he wanted, try to forgive Sherlock as hard as he might, Baker Street would never be his home again.

Or could it?

Unsure of what he wanted, John sighed once more and turned on the TV. Better to drown his thoughts in mindless shows than in alcohol.

*** 

John had intended to spent Thursday by letting himself float through the city. He went out without a goal, just wanted to stroll around. It took him less than an hour to abandon that plan. For he tried to stay away from all places he associated with Sherlock one way or another – and quickly found out that it was impossible.

Every corner of London, every district, seemed to be connected to one case or the other. After a short time he gave up and fled back to the meaningless room, turned on the TV once more and ignored the world for a while.

*** 

On Friday morning at nine o'clock sharp, John's mobile chimed. It was Sherlock.

“Got a client. Want to meet me at 221b to talk to him?”

A case. John's heart started pounding in his ear instantly. The thrill of a chase, the lure of danger … It triggered John's inner instincts, those he had deemed lost until now. Feelings he no longer wanted. There had been too much danger that night.

Another chime disturbed his thoughts. Sherlock again.

“A harmless case.”

John blinked. That feeling, that Sherlock knew exactly what John was thinking about, even though they were apart …

Well, no matter what John thought of that feeling, the information was an important one. For there was nothing wrong about a harmless case, right?

“Coming,” he wrote back and left the flat almost instantly. He completely ignored the little voice inside that told him “harmless” was only a cheap excuse for getting back things he only pretended not to want any longer.

John rushed the whole way and only slowed down when he was in sight of 221b. No need to appear over-eager. Because it was just an attempt, right? Just a little case to find out if it was possible to make peace with the past. One way or another.

The green door was not locked, just like two days ago. This time, John did not stop in front of it for nearly thirty minutes. This time, he only hesitated only for a second, then opened it.

When he was halfway in, Mrs Hudson opened her door, apparently expecting someone. She came out of her door beaming. Then her eyes fell on John and the corners of her mouth dropped significantly.

“Oh, it's you,” she said with a peculiar look on her face. It looked like she tried to be angry and compassionate at the same time. “It's good to see you here, after all that happened to you, poor soul. But if you hurt Sherlock, I'll surely do terrible things to you!”

Then she went inside her flat again and let the door slam.

Well, that was not the kind of reunion with her he had thought about.

Still frowning, he entered the living room. Sherlock, who must have been preparing one thing or the other for the client, stopped in the middle of moving some newspapers from A to B and greeted John with a smile. For a second, and only for a second, John had to admit that he was impressed by how good Sherlock looked.

When they had met two days ago, he had been wearing a brown dressing gown and way too big pyjamas, his hair uncombed. Now he was dressed up sharp, black trousers, a deep blue shirt, hair tamed and carefully arranged so it looked untamed.

Damn, so much time and so many hard feelings, and John was still not immune to the sight.

He cursed himself silently.

Fortunately, Sherlock was completely unaware of John's thoughts. “Ah, good morning,” he said while tidying up the sofa so the client could sit on it.

“Morning,” John answered, and forced himself to smile even though Sherlock was looking at the sofa.

When Sherlock finally turned around, he seemed to take in John with one close look. He smiled too, just slightly but still. “About the case ...” he started but the door bell interrupted him. He frowned.

“I should have known he would be early,” he sighed. “Well, I will inform you afterwards. Just play along.”

Before John knew what to make of that comment, there was a young man standing in front of them. He was pale and nervous and definitely not happy.

“James Winter,” he introduced himself and shook John's hand.

“You have surely heard of John Watson,” Sherlock chimed in before John could say something.

James looked at him for a moment. “Yes, um, no, sorry,” he stuttered, and quickly added, “Nice to meet you.”

How could he have heard of John? It had been nearly two years now since he had left London. The blog had been pretty abandoned ever since the wedding, and James looked young enough to have missed the peak of Sherlock's and John's fame before the fall.

The awkward moment lingered around a bit, then Sherlock gestured towards the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

James did what he was asked for, and John …

John was not sure what to do next. His chair was standing there, where it belonged to, and he should most likely simply sit down on it. Just like old times. No big deal, just a chair. But it felt wrong. So instead, he remained standing next to Sherlock's chair instead. Sherlock, who seemed to sense John's uncertainty, resolved the situation by not sitting down as well.

“Well, Mr Winter,” he said instead, “would you tell us why you are here today?”

James nodded eagerly while playing with his fingers. “My girl-friend is missing,” he explained, and when Sherlock just kept looking at him, he went on, “Janette Peters. We met a year ago in Edinburgh where we are both studying. We fell in love, had a wonderful time but one morning she was gone. Just like that.” He looked from Sherlock to John. “See, we did not have a quarrel or something, and we were looking for a flat we could move in together, and then – just like that – she is gone.”

His voice trembled when he continued, “All her things were gone from the hall, and she does not answer her phone ...” He sniffed into a tissue. “I was desperate, and then ...” He took his mobile out of his pocket and typed something, “...then I found a new facebook profile that said she was in London now.”

He showed his mobile towards them. Sherlock snatched it and showed it to John. He saw the face of a nice young woman on her profile, brown haired, smiling into the camera, some exotic beach behind her. “Single,” her relationship status said. John frowned but Sherlock gave James a warm yet not completely honest smile.

“I see why you are worried now,” he assured the young man.

Really? John frowned even more. The story sounded simple enough. Boy meets girl, girl breaks up and leaves boy. Where was the case in that? Sherlock seemed to see something John did not. Or was he acting? He looked at James compassionately. Maybe a bit too understanding.

James sniffed once more. “Somebody must be forcing her to stay away from me,” he said, tears swelling in his eyes but not falling.

John could only blink. Play along, Sherlock had said. Well, all right. John did his best to look convinced when James continued, “She would never leave me. She loves me.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course she does, Mr. Winters.”

“Please,” James went on, “can you help her?”

“I will try,” Sherlock promised, and finally sat down. Out of habit, John sat down as well. “Can you tell me who might have kidnapped her?”

What followed was the most absurd mixture of conspiracy theories John had ever heard. Apparently, there was a group of bankers who secretly ruled the flat (or maybe hollow) Earth by poisoning people by chemtrails and /or mind-controlling them by something called HAARP.

John was not sure whether to be shocked or amused. He glanced at Sherlock who did his best to remain serious.

“... and they don't want me to spread my knowledge, so they must have taken her to keep me silent.”

They both needed a second to realize that James was finally done with his strange monologue. “Um, yes,” Sherlock said, and stood up. “We will look for her and see what we can do.”

James got up too and started to shake Sherlock's hand fiercely. “Thank you, thank you so much! I knew you would never be under their control. Thank you!”He shook John's hand as well, and left.

“What the hell!” John exclaimed, no longer able to keep his silence. A hysteric giggle was swelling somewhere inside him, fighting with an exasperated sigh that also wanted out.

Sherlock looked at him, the corner of his mouth twitching. Their eyes met, and for a short moment they both grinned.

John shook his head. “Oh my, that was ...”

“...interesting,” Sherlock helped.

“Idiotic,” John finished, and laughed a little. It felt strange, like something he had not done in two years. Then he shook his head again. “You knew what he was up to. Why did you even let him in?”

Sherlock became sober again. “Jeanette's parents called me. Told me her crazy ex-boyfriend can't deal with her breaking up. They are worried he might be a danger.”

“I can see why,” John sighed. A thought appeared in a dark corner of his head. He would also be scared if his daughter would have … no, don't go there now!

Sherlock seemed not to have noticed and went on, “I will organize a meeting between them so she can tell him clearly that it is over. She said she had tried to soften the impact when she had left him and might not have been clear enough.”

John shook his head once more. Love, the most vicious motivator of all. Had she expected to start a new life, write a wonderful new chapter into her book of life, before realizing she was in a relationship with a crazy conspirator? Maybe that case was the wrong one to get over his own past.

No, he would not shy away from it. To get his mind on other things, he asked, “Why did you accept a case like that? It does not seem to be too interesting.”

Sherlock gave him a look John could not read. “James is in love,” he said then, softly. “He is a boring lunatic, yes, but his heart is broken. If I can help him getting over it, how can I reject?”

He had turned his back to John, looking out of the window, so John could no longer see his face. “Plus, Jeanette's parents are really scared for her daughter. Nobody else was willing to listen to them. That is not right. Parents should know their daughter is safe. I would have ...”

He stopped mid-sentence but John knew exactly what he had wanted to say. He would have done the same for John's daughter. A bitter feeling spread in his stomach. Sherlock had vowed to do everything to keep his daughter safe, yes. And then he had broken his vow in a horrifying way by allowing Mary to come with him that day.

They both remained silent for a long while, Sherlock staring out of the window, John staring at Sherlock.

“Well,” John finally said, “what will we do next?”

Sherlock turned around sharply, as if surprised that John was still willing to work with him on the case. Maybe he was. He blinked for a while, then said, “We have an appointment with Jeanette at noon to prepare her for her meeting with James. Then we will wait a few days, so James does not get suspicious at our speed and then arrange a meeting between the two of them.”

John nodded. “It might be difficult not to make a person suspicious that gets suspicious when he sees a plane in the sky.”

Sherlock's mouth moved a little, just slightly, and a very small gleam was seen in his eyes. “Maybe we can use this HAARP array to manipulate him into believing us,” he suggested, and John couldn't help but grin. Just a little bit.

“I am sure Mycroft can help us with that, he is surely using it on a regular basis,” he said, and Sherlock finally giggled again.

“Well, let's go then,” he said, swirling out of the room so fast John nearly got left behind.

*** 

Meeting Jeanette and her parents was a nice contrast to meeting James Winter, Sherlock thought. They were a decent family, with no understanding for James' strange ideas but some compassion for his state of mind.

“I don't want to hurt him,” Jeanette told them over a cup of tea, “but he started to scare me.”

John did most of the talking, to Sherlock's surprise. That gave him the time to marvel about the fact that John was still there with him. The case was not perfect as a first step back to the two of them being together in what ever way. When the talking had come to Jeanette's worried parents, Sherlock had been sure that John would simply turn around and leave.

But he was still here, not only staying, but actively working on the case. Sherlock studied his gestures, his bearing. Not easy, because every now and then, John would turn towards Sherlock to change a look, so Sherlock was not able to stare at John the way he wanted. Still, there was enough time to deduce him properly.

He was investing emotions into the case. Maybe because of the parent-child-complex. He allowed himself to invest emotions rather than shying away from all the unprocessed feelings for his own daughter. He made eye contact with Sherlock regularly, leaning a bit towards him unconsciously.

There was hope for them. Hope that John would not only make his peace with what happened but also find a way back to being friends with Sherlock. At least friends.

No, that was the wrong way of thinking. Friends was good. Friends was enough. It was so much more than Sherlock had had reason to hope for.

When they left the Peters' house, it was raining softly. “Wanna share a cab?” John asked. Such a simple question with such a lot to consider before answering. John looked a bit tired, surely worn from being John Watson once more after such a long time. Did he hope Sherlock would decline and leave him alone? No, he didn't.

“Gladly,” Sherlock answered, and mentally bit his tongue. Too enthusiastic. He ignored the glance John gave him and concentrated on summoning a cab. It always worked. Sherlock had long ago made peace with the fact that only Mycroft's influence had to be the reason for the fact that he never had to wait long. Well, anyway.

When a cab let them in, he instructed the driver to bring them to John's holiday home. John did not comment on that but was obviously slightly pleased by it.

They talked about the case a little. Nothing profound, just chit-chat about what they had both observed. It was nice.

Well, not nice. Not just nice. It was warm and comforting. And it would not last. Sherlock was painfully aware that John would not simply slip back into his old place.

When John left the cab, Sherlock got out as well. He needed to walk the rest of the way, maybe even take a detour, to think. Think about John, about what would happen next. Oh, had he said goodbye to John before leaving? Sherlock had to check his memory to find out that yes, he had. It had been a bit stilted but not bitter. They had agreed to meet again the day after tomorrow to discuss how to proceed with James. John had commented on the rain.

Oh yes, it was pouring now. Well, never mind. Sherlock had to go through what would happen next. John would go home. He would be in a good mood for a while but no longer than an hour. Then he would crash, realizing that he had fallen back into old habits too quickly. He would remember that he hated Sherlock for what happened that night and that he hated himself for it, and then he would feel bad because he had forgotten to hate them for a while.

The next time they would meet, John would be angry and distant again. That was all right, Sherlock just needed to be prepared. And he needed to come up with a plan. Now that is was obvious that John wanted to return to what they had, Sherlock needed a better plan than just waiting for things to happen.

What should he do? He needed to find a way to make John face his suppressed feelings. Yes, that was the only way. Because while John thought he hated Sherlock for what happened, in reality John hated himself. He mostly projected that onto Sherlock And that was not acceptable because John would not find peace hating Sherlock.

But how could he make John see the need to forgive himself when John had not even realized that he was blaming himself? That was a conundrum Sherlock could not solve. Not now. But there was hope, and that was a good thought to end these musings, right?

Right. With that, Sherlock decided to stop walking through the heavy rain and go home.

There was hope. It had not been there this morning. He was soaking wet but realizing that there was hope was well worth getting a little cold.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days later, John woke from the beeping of his mobile. There was a message from Sherlock. “Am sick. Stay away,” it read. John couldn't help but snort.

“I am a doctor,” he wrote back, “Sick is the only thing I still know how to deal with!” He hit send before he could over-think his words again and again, and left the flat instantly. In the taxi, he checked his mobile to see if Sherlock objected to him coming, but it remained silent.

He had spent the last day feeling bad about slipping back into his old role too quickly. He did not want to want that old life back, he wanted to be angry with Sherlock and get away from him. He wanted to see Sherlock and be reminded of all the pain that man had caused.

Somehow, that had not worked.

On the stairs of 221b, John could already hear Sherlock sneezing. It sounded melodramatic, just like John had thought it would.

But when he entered the flat, all bitter thoughts evaporated instantly. Sherlock looked miserable, sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa. His eyes had a feverish gleam, his cheeks an unnatural shade of red.

“I wanted to tell you to stay away again,” he said as a greeting, “but I left my mobile in the kitchen and couldn't get up again.”

There was so much weakness and pity in his voice that John could not stop his heart from melting.

Just a tiny bit. Not much. Really. Just a tiny little bit. It felt strange.

Sherlock sneezed again, and winced instantly. John knelt down next to him and touched his forehead. It was burning, just like he thought it would. To his surprise, Sherlock seemed to lean into the touch. Well, maybe it was just weakness. Still, that little gesture left a funny resonance in John's soul. He brushed that thought aside quickly.

“Come on, let's get you to bed,” he said and heaved Sherlock up. They both stumbled a bit, and John had to struggle to get them going. It seemed like Sherlock tried to follow but could not stand on his own. They found a stable position when Sherlock leaned against John and let himself being pulled into the bedroom.

John gently lowered him on the bed where Sherlock slipped underneath the blanket with a heavy sigh. “Don't want to cause you trouble,” he mumbled.

“Idiot,” John answered softly and wiped Sherlock's damp curls from his eyes. He wanted to say more, ask how much water Sherlock had drunk today or if he had taken any meds, but the sick man's eyes were falling closed already, and he was asleep before John was finished draping the blanket around his shoulders. So instead, he closed the bedroom door and tiptoed back into the living room.

There, he stopped, standing right in the middle of the room. It felt wrong being here alone. The last time he was, it had been …

God. It had been THAT day. He had stood here just like that, on his own. And it had been wrong to be here alone. He no longer lived here, but that had not been the reason why it had felt wrong. He had come here for a reason, determined and nervous, and – Sherlock had not been here. But his laptop had been open, and a route had been seen on google maps, and John had instantly understood that Sherlock had ventured off to meet Moran on his own, and John had not needed a nano second to decide to follow him.

And by that, he had sealed his daughter's fate.

The memory was almost too much. John took an unsteady breath. But he needed to face that thought every now and then, right? If he had stayed away, Mary would still be alive, and his daughter would not have died before getting the chance to be born.

But he could not have known that Mary would be there too. How could he have guessed that his wife would do something so incredibly stupid? How could he have guessed that Sherlock would allow her to join him but leave John behind?

Grief and anger were burning hot in John's throat. He had to concentrate on breathing for a while. Why had he followed Sherlock that day?

Because that was what he always did, a little voice inside him said. Sherlock went into danger, and John followed. So how could Sherlock have left the route open? He must have known that John would follow him. And he must have known that John showing up at the peak of the confrontation would set Moran off.

How could Sherlock not have seen that coming?

Because Sherlock could not have known that John would come to 221b, that little voice said. Because John had made a big fuss over pretending to go on a conference that weekend, so Mary would not ask where he had been.

Because Sherlock could not have known why John had come that day.

John briefly wondered if crying would cause relief. Or if he wanted relief. Did he deserve it? He had no idea. But then, he was not one to cry anyway, and there were things to be done. Like, … John looked around. Like checking the meds, finding out if he needed something in case Sherlock's fever got higher. Like placing a glass of water on Sherlock's bedside table. Looking for clean cloths to wipe the sweat away. Something light to eat, some soup or the like.

All that occupied John for a little more than thirty minutes. Afterwards, Sherlock was still sound asleep and John alone with his thoughts. Should he tell Mrs Hudson he was here? She was angry with him, kind of. Well, the last thing he felt up to now was facing an angry Mrs Hudson.

For no reason at all, he sneaked back into the bedroom and looked down at Sherlock. He felt … something. Not sure what it was. Too many things at once to tell. Sherlock looked peaceful in his sleep, much younger than when he was awake. John remembered a time when he had known exactly what he had felt when looking at Sherlock in his sleep. Why had everything seemed to be so complicated back then? What an idiot he had been.

He had already turned around to leave the room when he heard Sherlock mumble something.

“John.”

He stepped closer. “I'm here,” he said, with his soothing doctor's voice, but then he saw that Sherlock was staring into the empty space next to John's face.

“John is doing it wrong,” Sherlock whispered. Doing what wrong? John felt like he should leave now to grant Sherlock privacy, but then …

“What is he doing wrong?” he asked instead. He felt a bit guilty.

“Healing,” Sherlock answered, still looking at something next to John's ear. There was a great sadness in his voice.

At first, John thought Sherlock was talking about John doctoring him today but the he realized that this was not what Sherlock meant.

“What do you mean?” he implored, and to his surprise, Sherlock willingly went on talking.

“He thinks he needs to forgive me or to finally condemn me to move on but that is bullocks. He needs to forgive himself.”

John watched Sherlock blink a few times, then his eyes closed again. “I miss him,” Sherlock whispered.

“But he came back, didn't he?” John could not help but ask.

Sherlock's voice was barely audible when he said, “Not with his heart.”

He sighed, and then fell asleep once more.

And left John standing in the bedroom alone, confused and overwhelmed. For a long time, he could only stare at his sleeping patient. His mind refused to think about what he had heard, his heart refused to let it go. His body, trapped between the two, only stood still for what seemed to be like hours.

When he was able to move again, John sneaked into the living room and slipped down into his chair. His chair. His mind was still swirling without getting hold of a clear thought. Feelings washing over him like tidal waves.

There was a thought that fought his way to the surface of John's mind, a thought he had pushed away again and again for two days now. He missed Sherlock too. He missed being his friend, he missed admiring him, taking care for him, laughing with him. He missed the prospect of being more one day. He missed everything that had died together with Mary and the baby that day.

Feeling empty and drenched, John did the only thing that made sense now: he made tea. His body took over, automatically doing everything that was necessary to fulfil the task.

At some point, he realized he was sitting in his chair once more, the cup already half empty.

There was something dangerous all around him now, something that was luring him into deep waters. Hope. Was it really possible to forgive himself? And would that really lead him back to what he had thought he would no longer want? Could it -

The prospect of all that left John almost numb. His breath was a bit unsteady, he noticed, and it was not completely impossible that his cheeks were a tad wet. He closed his eyes. Was forgiveness really a possibility?

And then there was something new adding to the mix of emotions, something even more dangerous than hope. Longing. He was longing to get back what he lost, longing to feel content again, longing for peace.

Longing for Sherlock.

Damn. There it was in the open, now. Once he had thought it, he could not stuff it back into the box he had built in his mind. He was longing for Sherlock.

The words of the old Italian poem came back into his mind, “Here begins a new life”. And for the first time, he understood that even now that could also mean something good. A new life. A better one. It seemed to be waiting for him once more, should he only decide he'd want it.

*** 

When Sherlock woke up from his feverish dreams, he was alone in his bed. His sheets were not drenched with sweat, so somebody must have changed them. His pyjamas were not drenched with sweat, so somebody must have changed them as well. His pants … Oh damn.

There was a glass of water standing on his night table. Yes, better to focus on that one than on the pants that were also not drenched with sweat. There were little drops of water condensation on the outside of that glass, so it had not been standing there for too long.

Who could be there?

He had a blurry memory of telling John to stay away, and of talking to somebody about John, and about being brought to bed, and about John tending for him in the living room. Maybe he got the order of events wrong. Had John really been here?

It was much more likely that Mrs Hudson had heard him coughing or something.

Had he coughed?

No matter how hard he tried, he could not remember more than little fragments that did not fit together. A sound broke through his feeble attempts to think clearly. A cup clattering. Somebody was cleaning the kitchen. Moving faster than Mrs Hudson would. Not hesitating, somebody who knows exactly where everything belonged.

John?

With some effort, Sherlock got up and stumbled into the living room. From there he could see him, clearing away some dishes. The living room was tidier than before, the magazines all placed in a nearly perfect stack. So John had spent quite some time here while Sherlock had been sick.

The changed pants came back to his mind, and he felt himself flush. Well, John was a doctor, right? And he had seen Sherlock naked more often than once. So, let's get over that one. The more important thing was that John was here. Sherlock had told him to stay a way and he was here.

Before Sherlock could dwell upon that thought, John turned around and spotted him.

“Hey, see who is awake again,” he said, smiling just a little bit, and came to him. “Better sit down, you must be still weak.” And with that, John placed him on the sofa, put a blanket over him and made a cup of tea appear on the table.

There was something strange about him. Something new. Sherlock was still too tired to put his finger on what it was. It seemed to be something good. John sat down next to him, producing another cup of tea out of nowhere and sipped it carefully. They sat like that for a while, in almost comfortable silence. Almost like they used to do back then. It was almost wonderful.

When finished with the tea, John started a little examination. Are you feeling sick? Is your temperature still higher than normal? Do you feel up to taking a shower? It was nice, being taken care for. Sherlock gave in to it and let John take his temperature, feel his pulse, push him into the bath room and leave him there with fresh comfortable clothes to take that shower.

When the warm water was pouring over him, Sherlock recalled every move, every word John had said, and searched for what was new. It took him a while to finally understand what had attracted his attention: The lack of bitterness.

What had caused that? Sherlock had no idea but that didn't really bother him. John was here, and better than before, and that was all that mattered to him right now.

After the shower, when Sherlock had huddled under a blanket on the sofa close to drifting into sleep once more, with John sitting next to his feet, he felt something he had not felt for a very long time.

He felt whole again.


	5. Chapter 5

They used the time Sherlock needed to get back to his strength to do some research on all the obscure stuff James Winter had mentioned. The hollow or flat world, chemtrails, aliens who dealt with American presidents. Weird stuff.

And yet, Sherlock enjoyed it immensely because John was there. Incredible how much his presence made everything better, more exciting, bearable. And something had definitely changed that day when Sherlock had been sick. John was really there now, with his heart. It was so much more than Sherlock had hoped for.

They were skimming through forums and facebook groups, sharing the most ludicrous ideas with each other. Sherlock was telling John about a stupid believer who thought he was a super hero because he wallpapered his home with aluminium foil against his wife's wish to protect them from alien observers, when John suddenly went sober.

He did not say a word but started to look to the ground instead at Sherlock, frowned, pursed his lips and did all the other things he always did when being on the edge of saying something unpleasant.

“Please John,” Sherlock interrupted his preparations, “just say it!”

John's head snapped up. He had not been aware of all the signals he was sending out and felt thrown off his guard now. Well, that was always the best state of mind for him to talk about all that feeling stuff.

“I … “he started, stopped, and Sherlock knew he would go on like that for quite a while. Patiently, he watched him until he finally blurted out, “Why did you take Mary with you to that storage building?”

That question came as a surprise to Sherlock. An unpleasant one. He felt his guts clench in a very unpleasant way. How could John think … had he thought it all the time? Damn.

Sherlock closed his eyes, forced himself to remain calm. To not let the anger lash out. It did not really work, for his voice was trembling with rage when he said, “How can you even possibly believe I “allowed” her to come with me?” Something was stinging in his eyes but he pushed that feeling aside. Not now.

John just stared at him. As always, that only made Sherlock go on talking. “I made a vow, John. A vow! I had no idea she would come to that building. I would have never ...”

He needed to stop, for that stinging in his eyes became more intense. John was just staring at him, open-mouthed.

“I thought ...” John started saying and fell silent again. He was a mess, that much was clear, but unfortunately that did nothing to soften Sherlock's anger.

“I NEVER thought she would come along!” he went on, his voice shaking even more now. “She made me think going for Moran was a good idea, and just when I managed to open up that sealed door, she appeared right behind me.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I never understood how a highly pregnant woman could be that fast and stealthy!”

Sherlock took a few breaths before he could continue, “She made clear that loudly arguing with her about going away would endanger her a lot more than letting her trail behind, and she was right. She was right, John!”

The memory still hurt so much more than he could stand. John was completely silent. There was sheer horror on his face. Did he regret thinking Sherlock had endangered both Mary and the baby like that? Sherlock hoped he was, for it was a terrible thing to believe.

“I thought ...” John stammered after some time, “I really … Oh god, how could I believe that?”

They looked at each other, both close to tears. Well, maybe just a little bit beyond tears. John closed his eyes in pain, and Sherlock's anger melted away. They were silent for a very long time.

When John started speaking again, his voice was soft and low, “How did you manage to forgive yourself, Sherlock?” He looked at him so lost that Sherlock had to fight the impulse to embrace him, long and hard. “How can I ever forgive me all the things I did and thought?”

Sherlock shook his head a little. “My way of forgiving myself won't help you, John,” he answered.

John frowned, and Sherlock went on before he would lose the courage to say it loud, “I worked so hard on forgiving myself because I knew I would have to be whole again should you ever come back and need help with healing.”

After that, Sherlock expected John to leave the flat. To his surprise, he only stared at the ground for a while, then he sniffed, wiped away a few unshed tears and said, “Did you know that people like James believe the sun and stars are only projections? They don't think that there is a universe, so no stars as well.”

He turned his back to Sherlock to continue reading on the internet forum, and Sherlock watched his shoulders relax ever so slightly.

Well, all right. Let's go on then. Other people would have talked about it more detailed but they were not other people. For now, they had said everything they needed to say. Sherlock made a more or less funny comment on that idea, then they went back to researching.

When John left late that night, he looked into Sherlock's eyes when wishing him a good night.

*** 

Sherlock's sickness had thrown them back a few days but James Winters did not seem to mind. In fact, he told them that for him, it was the final proof that neither Sherlock nor John were bought by “them”, whoever “they” might be. And when Sherlock told him that they had found Jeanette, he was more than pleased.

Of course, that changed rather quickly when they met at a café, closely watched by John and Sherlock. For Jeanette did not fall into his arms, happy to be rescued from the reptiloid leaders of the world. She told him she no longer loved him, clearly, softly, but without leaving any doubt.

John had to admire her. He had ended a few relationships a lot less appropriately. Briefly, he wondered how he would have told Mary. Surely not as calm and determined as Jeanette did.

James did not cherish that, of course. When the woman he loved had left the café, he barely looked at John and Sherlock, murmured a few words of thanks anyway, and left, tears clearly visible in his eyes. Poor sod.

“Well,” John said when James had left, and then he realized that he did not know what else to say.

Sherlock said nothing.

John cleared his throat. “Um, do you think ...” He looked at Sherlock who was still staring at the door, “Do you think he'll get over her now?”

“No idea,” Sherlock answered, avoiding John's glance. Or was he just too lost in thoughts to look at him?

John sighed, “It is hard when you have to give up the last bit of hope for your love, right?”

At that, Sherlock looked at him sharply for a second, then seemed to have found something extremely interesting on the floor he kept staring at. “I don't know,” he said softly, “I've always kept that last bit of hope.” Then he looked at John once more, “I am not sure that is better or worse than accepting the end.”

For some reason, John had to swallow. Silence fell between them while they were both standing in the middle of the room. John watched Sherlock's feet. Sherlock watched something on the carpet.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Sherlock spoke up again, “John, I need to ask you something.”

For a second, John expected to hear “Do you love me?” but that was absurd of course. “Yeah, sure,” he said, feeling the need to move closer to Sherlock. He remained standing where he was.

Sherlock seemed to brace himself for something. Then he took a deep breath and asked, “Why did you come here that day?”

John could not help but close his eyes for a second. He clenched his jaw.

Sherlock, maybe sensing his discomfort, went on talking, “I mean, you told us you'd go to a medical conference. And you lied. Perfectly, apparently, for neither Mary nor I realized you were lying. And you are a bad liar normally. So either you had decided not to go spontaneously, but in that case there was no reason to come to 221b instead of going home. And there had been no time for you to do that. No, you came here first. Apparently you had put all your energy into lying that well. So there must have been a very important reason. But for years now I fail to understand what that might have been.”

They were both looking at the other's direction while avoiding each other's eyes. John sighed deeply. He realized that his fists were clenched. Sherlock's face was slightly red, and John could see him swallowing. Oh Lord, what to do now?

With another deep sigh, John stared, “It does not matter any more. I will tell you but it no longer has any consequence.” He was not sure if his voice was really trembling. Did he believe himself? He had no idea. Anyway. He fixed his eyes on a spot right next to Sherlock's face and went on, “I came to say ...” It was not easy. “I wanted to tell you that I ...” Damn, it hurt, even though it should not. Not any more.

“I came to tell you that I loved you and wanted to leave Mary for you.”

Sherlock did not move. At all. He stood perfectly still for a while. Then he nodded, slowly. “I ...” he started and had to try one more time, “I had no idea.” There was marvel in his voice. He gave John a sad little smile, “See, you always manage to surprise me.”

The moment hung into the air between them, Now would be a good moment to go, John thought. Instead, he remained standing there.

After a while, Sherlock took a deep breath and said, “I would have … appreciated hearing that from you that day.”

John nodded too. He had suspected that, had been almost sure that his feelings had been mutual. “It does not matter any more,” he said quietly. And when Sherlock did not answer, he turned around to go.

He had nearly reached the door when he heard Sherlock's warm, gentle voice, “I still have not given up that last piece of hope, John.”

Not knowing what to say to that, John stood in the door of the café for a while. Then he left without looking back.

*** 

When he arrived at his holiday home, John allowed himself to collapse onto the sofa. It had been too much today, he knew that. This terrible roller coaster ride. Hope, no hope, love, hate, … He knew he needed to stop that, one way or another.

Damn, when he had come back from Scotland, he had been sure that he wanted to get over everything Sherlock-related. Now he was almost sure that he wanted forgiveness, for him and for Sherlock. And he wanted to share Sherlock's hope.

There was no way he could find a way to forgive himself, John knew. He had tried for a long time, then he had had to ignore his own guilt to get going. How do people forgive themselves?

Then he had an idea. Maybe he could use a trick. Do what Sherlock did so often. Maybe he could go inside his mind, and talk to the one whom he got killed. Maybe he could imagine Mary and see if he could make peace with himself that way.

He found a comfortable position on that sofa, closed his eyes, and tried to make up the perfect surrounding for their imagined reunion. He wanted to conjure up the living room of their old home but ended up in the bedroom that should have been their daughter's. No matter what he did, his mind insisted on staying there. Well, so be it.

Now he only had to imagine Mary being here as well...

He heard a movement behind him and turned around to face her. But what he saw hit him by surprise. A young woman was standing in front of him, barely grown up, with long dark-blonde hair and a smile that reminded him of Harry when she was young.

He had made up his daughter, he realized, a version way older than she would be now. God, she was beautiful.

“Hello, dad,” she said, her voice reminding him of Mary when she was still pretending to be that good nurse. “It is about time that you came here.”

He did not know what to say. The lump in this throat was so big that he could not swallow.

“You wanted to call me Isabelle,” she said, still smiling warmly, “The only name you both could agree on.”

She was right, of course. Mary had insisted on choosing the name on her own but John had strongly objected to Tabatha, Deborah and Marylou. In the end, they had agreed on Isabelle. John looked at her, knowing his eyes were wet.

“You are beautiful,” was all that he could say. Then he corrected himself, “You would have been beautiful. I mean, ...”

Isabelle shook her head, “Don't get lost in grammar, dad. You came here for a reason, didn't you?” Her voice was warm and gentle. There was no bitterness in it.

John nodded. He could not stop to look at her. Suddenly, the full impact of what he had lost that day took the air out of his lungs. He would never see his daughter make her first steps, learn how to speak, go to school, meet a boy or girl she loved, get a job, … A whole life was extinguished that day. A wonderful person that never got the chance to be.

In his mind, his legs gave in. “Forgive me,” he said, barely able to speak but needing to finally get it out. “Forgive me for coming to that storage building. If I had stayed away, Sherlock and Mary would surely have been able to deal with Moran. He only shot her because he felt threatened by my appearance. I never wanted … I wanted to protect Sherlock. I did not know I would … “ He needed to say it, now. “I killed you. I made him shoot you and I am so sorry.”

He was crying now, cowering on the floor, heavy sobs shook his body. He heard steps approaching him, then he felt Isabelle taking him into his arms. Her long hair was tickling his face. She just held him for a while.

“Did you know Mary would be there too?” she asked after a while.

John shook his head fiercely. “No, no I didn't. I'd never thought she would put you in such danger.”

Isabelle started rocking him gently in her arms. “Did Sherlock know she would be there?”

John bit his lips. It was hard to let go of the bitterness he had carried around for so long. After a while, he admitted, “No, he didn't.”

He pressed his face into his daughter's shoulder. She smelled of body lotion and a fruity shampoo.

“You had no way of knowing Mary would be there,” Isabelle said softly. “So who is really to blame for her presence there?”

John was quiet for a long time. It was a thought he had never accepted but it was true. “Mary. It was Mary's own fault you both were there that day.”

Saying it loud was a strange kind of revelation. He felt tons lighter than before. “Mary is to blame too.”

Isabelle stopped rocking him. She moved back a bit so she could look into his eyes. “I forgive you, dad. Go and be happy.” She took something out of a bagback she had not been wearing before and handed it to John.

He took it carefully. It was a book, looking new, with a bright turquoise cover. Inside, the pages were empty.

“A new life will start soon,” Isabelle explained, “and now you have a brand new book to write all of it down. A fresh first page to start again.”

The very next second, John was back to the sofa, in his empty holiday home. His hands were empty, of course, the book existing only in his memory. But there, it existed, and John cherished it. The new day was already dawning.

His future was out there, waiting for him to grasp it. The new book that was his memory would not start with when he had first met Sherlock. It would start today, when he would come back to Baker Street, telling Sherlock that they still had a long way to go but that they would end up facing it together. When he would tell him that he loved him.

Yes, that would be the perfect start. He still had time to get two or three hours of sleep. Not bothering to go to bed, he slipped into a deep slumber right there on the sofa. A new life, he thought while slipping away, and it would start today.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock should have known that a nerdy lunatic like James Winter did not have any manners. Threatening Sherlock with a gun, in his own living room, before breakfast, was simply rude. And why that early? He glanced longingly at the cup that was standing on the kitchen counter, tea bag already placed inside. He sighed.

James was still babbling but Sherlock had stopped listening when the gist of his sermon had become clear: Sherlock had failed to return Jeanette into James' loving arms, hence he must be in cahoots with “them” and Winter was angry about that.

The way he was holding the gun demonstrated clearly that he had never used one before. Aiming for Sherlock he would surely shoot the lamp or the chair. He was used to a higher class of life threatening situations, and annoyed rather than scared.

Sherlock had spent the night thinking about John, whether he had opened a door by his remarks about hope or closed it. John was still fascinatingly hard to predict. Well, the faster he dealt with Winter, the faster he could continue marvelling about John.

He listened to Winter for a moment. Yep, he was still talking about Sherlock being manipulated by this group of bankers. Or reptiloids. It was ridiculous. Sherlock knew exactly who ruled the world in reality. He was related to one of them.

Suddenly, what had been a mere annoyance became something serious. Steps on the stairs. John's steps.

And judging from speed, tact and lightness, he was in an extremely good mood. After going home to find a way to forgive himself. After learning that Sherlock still loved him. Now, John was stupid enough to get himself shot just when he wanted to make a love declaration.

For the second that was still left, Sherlock willed him away, tried to send him back into his holiday home by the sheer power of his mind but of course that never worked. Instead, John opened the door looking eager and self-assured and found himself standing in front of Winter's gun.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock said sarcastically, mainly to force Winter's attention back to himself, “finished with being manipulated by the hollow world's secret rulers already?”

“Flat,” Winter said, and both John and Sherlock stared at him so he went on, “The world is flat. Not hollow. That would be absurd!”

Oh Lord, they were really in the hands of a crackpot.

“A flat world is just as absurd,” Sherlock could not help pointing out, “at the shore you can easily see how the ships … ”

“SHUT UP!” Winter yelled.

Yes, of course. Yelling was so much easier than thinking for yourself. Sherlock sighed again. He caught John's warning glance. Never make the one with the gun angry.

He calculated their options. Winter was standing between the two of them, wildly pointing from John to Sherlock back to John with his loaded gun. John was at full soldierly attention, watching both Winter and Sherlock. Winter was so busy waving his gun that he should have no brain capacity left to observe them carefully.

They should be able to communicate silently to coordinate their effort to end this situation. He needed to establish eye contact with John so they could start planning. But instead of looking at him, John was fully focused on Winter.

“Look,” he heard John say, “I know how hard it is when a love affair comes to an end ...”

Oh, stupid. Very compassionate and very … John, but still a stupid thing to do. Winter was way beyond listening and would interpret every sentence as an attempt to manipulate him. Sherlock needed to do something, and quick. He needed to evoke Winter's attention so John could disarm him. Yes, good idea. John was better at disarming people. It was a lot safer that way.

“I am not manipulated ...” Sherlock started, wanting to tell Winter that the reptiloids never offered him enough money to convince him but never got the chance. For he took a step forward towards Winter while talking, and Winter saw that, and panicked, for some reason Sherlock would never understand, he fired his gun that was still pointing at John.

John cried out and collapsed in a heap on the ground, and then did neither move nor cry. An eerie silence fell over the flat, and for a second, nothing, absolutely nothing happened.

Then Sherlock snapped out of his shock, leaped at Winter, wrested the gun from him and hit him on the head with it to knock him out. More than once. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw movement. John sitting up, holding his -

He was alive. Alive. With one fluid movement Sherlock threw the gun away, jumped to his feed and dropped down next to John. John, who only seemed to have a little graze on his arm.

“You are all right,” Sherlock stated the obvious, realizing his brain was not working at full speed for some reason.

John, who was sitting upright now, nodded, “Yeah, not bad. I thought going down dramatically would give you enough time to ...”

Sherlock stopped listening, for his whole body started shaking for some obscure reason. His hands seemingly tried to do an impossible mixture of holding tight to John and touching him all over to make sure he really was not hurt badly. He realized that John was looking at him in an odd way but could not concentrate on it.

There was a voice filling the room, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize it was his own. What was he saying? Something about his life ending should anything ever happen to John. Cheesy. He was making a fool of himself. Why didn't John stop him?

John was still looking at him oddly, and then, without any warning, without saying a word, he did stop Sherlock from talking nonsense. He leaned forward and kissed him. Right there, on the floor. It was uncomfortable, for John was still clutching his graze and Sherlock was still shivering but it was also wonderful and perfect and so Sherlock kissed back.

It was a long kiss, or several long kisses, rather, it took the breath out of Sherlock's lungs and left his brain spinning around in a daze. It was all John, strong and sturdy, and warm and just right. It went on forever.

They only broke away when Winter started to stir.

“We better tie him up,” John said.

“We need to take care for your graze,” Sherlock said at the same time.

John smiled, and the sun rose over London. “You tie him up, I'll take care for my wound,” he ordered then, and Sherlock obliged.

Explaining the whole thing to one of Lestrade's less stupid colleagues was easy. Explaining it all to Mrs Hudson was a bit harder. There was another bullet hole on her precious wall now, and she was still a bit reserved about John. But in the end, all explaining was done, and to Sherlock's pleasure everybody not John had left the flat.

“You kissed me,” Sherlock said, not quite knowing how to handle that special situation.

“You love me,” John stated the obvious, apparently better at the handling thing.

“The feeling is mutual,” Sherlock answered, and John started grinning like a teenager. He opened his mouth to say something, the closed it again, came closer and kissed Sherlock once more. And once more. And once more. And then they were no longer just kissing but also doing other things instead, and nobody talked for quite a while.

*** 

Later that day, or maybe it was already night, John had lost track, they were lying in bed, John spooning Sherlock, their legs tangled, Sherlock's curls tickling John's nose.

"Here begins a new life," John thought, and pressed himself closer against Sherlock's back.

"What?" came a drowsy whisper. Apparently he had said it loud.

"A new life," John explained and started to play with those soft curls just because he could, "A poem I read once that somehow became important to me. 'In that book which is my memory …/ On the first page / That is the chapter when / I first met you...”

“Appear the words …/ Here begins a new life” Sherlock continued. "La vita nuova by Dante Alighieri. Written in 1295, and it still fits with our lives."

He remained silent for a while, and just when John was sure he would fall asleep again, Sherlock went on, "This is not the beginning of your book, John. This is not when we first met. Ever since then, there has been …"

"Hush," John said, softly caressing Sherlock's back with his fingers just to make sure he got the point: that they were here now, together. That it would always be the two of them. That there would always be love.

"I have decided to start writing a new book that will start today." After giving it some thought, he went on, "Sherlock, love, there are still so many things I still need to get over with. It won't be all fluffy and sweet and …"

"Hush," Sherlock whispered softly, mimicking John. "We both need to get to terms with so much. But we have all the time in the world. And we have each other."

They fell silent again. Then Sherlock suddenly giggled. "The new book of your life, starting with so much porn? Why am I not surprised, Dr. Three-Continents-Watson?"

How could he possibly know about that nickname? Well, he was Sherlock, right? John had to giggle as well. "I intend to write a lot more trashy chapters. And as you are the one profiting from that ..." John let the unfinished sentence linger while quickly demonstrating what he meant.

Sherlock gave him a pleasant groan. "No objections here," he whispered.

John smiled to himself. They lay like that for a long time. When John was slowly drifting into sleep, Sherlock's deep voice found it's way into John's ear once more.

"How will you call it?"

"Hm?" There was something very earnest in his voice so John struggled a bit to wake up properly.

"Your book of life. What will the title be?"

He blinked and gave it some thought. Then he nodded to himself. "The two of us against the rest of the world." he answered then.

Sherlock gave an affirmative hum and underlined his approval with an action worthy to be mentioned in the first chapter of John's porn.

He had to laugh out loud at that thought, and Sherlock chimed in, most likely knowing exactly what John had been thinking.

It would not be a fluffy rose garden kind of life that would be described in that book but it would be a life well worth all the struggle that had led them here.

It would be their life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting and giving kudos for my last fic before S4. :-) Enjoy the next series - it might bring angsty fics with it. (Yay!!!)
> 
> Special thanks to my beta Readers katzedecimal and Ani. Thank you for your input!


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